Fatal Attraction
by madam-stardust
Summary: In a moment of confusion, Little Mac lets his guard down. Unfortunately for him, Don Flamenco never misses an opportunity to move in. [Don Flamenco/Little Mac]


Mac had gone up against Flamenco and lost, badly. Mac had walked right into his counters, and the man had practically danced circles around him. It stung, but he tried to keep his mind off it as he dug his clothes out of the WVBA locker room. The clamor of the crowd in the arena had died down, and now all that he could hear was someone humming, loudly and tunefully, from the shower. _Hmm hmm hm-hm, hmm hmm hm-hm hm-hm…_

It was a familiar tune, something he'd heard in a cartoon somewhere. Maybe from an opera? Maybe about a bullfighter? Yeah, that was it, the Toréador song. _Toréador, en garde. Toréador, toréador_.

Mac laid his bag down and stepped slowly, carefully, towards the showers. One of them was occupied, with the curtain closed, and he could see someone's lanky, lean, disciplined silhouette as he washed his hair.

He'd recognize Don Flamenco anywhere. Mac could never forget the laser-focused power of those sinewy arms and the quick, sure-footed steps of a dancer. To be honest, it started a flare of embarrassment inside him again, just to see him singing in the shower like it was nothing.

Flamenco turned, his humming trailing off into aimlessness. His shoulders shifted and sank, and he turned his head upwards, letting out a long exhalation as the water ran over his hair and down his back. Mac knew that sound, the sigh of tension washing away with the hot water. The smell of sweat and blood coming off your body, leaving a blank slate behind...

Mac buried his face in his hands and rubbed at his eyes. There was a weird feeling knotting itself up in his stomach, something anxious and tense. Why was he doing this?

He turned, and his sneaker squeaked on the locker room floor.

The humming stopped.

Mac froze, looking over his shoulder, watching as Don Flamenco jutted his head out of the shower. He looked around, astonished, and then his eyes narrowed as they met Mac's.

"I'm sorry-" Mac started.

"What the _hell _are you doing, boy?" Flamenco exclaimed, peering at his opponent with a glare. "Trying to sneak in and kill me, hah? You're a sore loser?"

"N-no!" Mac protested, stumbling backwards a little bit as he threw his hands up. "No, I _swear. _It's not like that-"

"So you just like to spy on people in the shower!" Flamenco yanked the curtain closed again. "Pervert!"

"I'm not watching you," Mac protested, and his voice faltered as he realized he was lying. Flamenco let out a derisive snort from behind the curtain. "I'm…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

There was the _squeak _of a faucet turning as the water came to a stop. Mac could see the shadow of Flamenco pull his arms back, brushing the water out of his hair and face. "Oh?" he said. "You don't mean to stand there and stare at me?"

"Sorry," Mac said quickly, his cheeks burning as he turned away. "I-I don't…I'm sorry. I'll just go."

He walked away from the showers and back to his locker, stuffing his clothes into his bag without even looking at them. _I can't believe I did that, _he thought. _I shouldn't have done that. _He tried to tune out everything else, but he heard the rattle of the curtain rings and the sound of wet feet on the tile.

_What's wrong with me? _

Right on cue, Flamenco let out a low laugh. "Don't feel too bad," he said. "You've seen how all the women love me. And now the men, too."

Mac's hands tensed up into fists and he turned to give Flamenco a glare of his own. "Listen, I don't…"

Flamenco was standing at the entrance to the showers, a white towel tied around his waist and another draped around his neck. He looked at Mac with a self-satisfied grin, like he could read Mac here just as easily as he read him in the ring.

Mac felt himself starting to shake.

"No?" Flamenco said, mopping off his face with the towel. He gave another little infuriating laugh. "It's okay. It happens to everyone." He started to walk over to Mac's locker, grinning down at him. "Even the ones who lose to me."

Mac stuffed the rest of his clothes back in his bag, grabbed it, and stood up. Flamenco was right there next to him, looking down his sizable nose like a high school bully. "So, is it true?" he asked. "Little Mac likes himself some big boxers, hah?"

Mac shook his head and mumbled out some kind of _mm-mm _sound. Flamenco raised one of his hands, and Mac tensed-and then he brought it under the boy's chin, tilting it up, turning his face a bit. Sizing him up. Don Flamenco's sharp, shiny eyes taking note of everything from his shaking hands to the flush on his cheeks.

"You think I'm beautiful?"

This time, Mac nodded.

Flamenco chuckled, and Mac felt his knees wobble as his warm breath brushed across his lips. "Good," he whispered. Mac reached up, his mouth trembling, and Flamenco pulled away just enough that all he kissed was air. "But let me give you some advice."

He let go of the boy's chin and stood up straight. Mac slumped back against the lockers bonelessly, gasping, looking up at him in the most sublime expression of frustration and confusion and _want_ that Don Flamenco had ever seen.

"If you leave yourself so open…" Flamenco gave him a smug, predatory smile. "People won't hesitate to hurt you, boy."

Mac stared at him, blinking. Slowly he came to the surface again, his hazy eyes becoming wide and clear. He broke away from the wall, grabbing his bag as he dashed out the locker room and down the hall.

As he ran, he could hear faint singing behind him. _Toréador, en garde..._


End file.
